


Of Cloudless Climbs and Starry Skies

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Series: Of Cloudless Climbs and Starry Skies [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: As created by tumblr's beanpots, Constellations, Day/Night AU, Flowers, M/M, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:31:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9292277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: The King of Day should not turn his head to watch. He should not hesitate, even though the sun does in the distance. He should not drop that single rose when their slippers align, when their gossamer gowns chafe whispers, and starlight pokes pinpricks into the dome of the sky. He should not romanticize that moment when day is overcome by night.But in being so overcome, how can he not?





	

**Disclaimer:** I don’t even own the idea for this AU. 

**Author’s Note:** Question: How do I hold my feels for Beanpots' Day/Night AU? Answer: Not well. 

**Warnings:** Flowery writing, I guess. No beta. Constellation meanings/legends (subtly?) referenced. According to google, 7 minutes and 31 seconds is the longest a solar eclipse can last. Title taken from “She Walks in Beauty” by Lord Byron, which is perfect for this AU and so has been stuck in my head for two days.

**XXX**

**Of Cloudless Climbs and Starry Skies**

**XXX**

It begins at the end.

The Lands of Twilight are a darker shade of brilliance than the Valley of Dawn, its meadows’ pinks and oranges a rich, smoky hue. Beyond obsequious sward— the blades’ heads bent into a bow— and the tangled web of spider lilies that catch what crimson drips from the sky, the horizon burns away the remnants of the day, as if in sacrifice. Dew glimmers, gilded, upon the tips of closing petals, a galaxy of tiny suns turned to minute moons when the sunlight starts to fade: waxing, waning, new. Darkness. 

Darkness. 

The King of Day walks away from darkness, the sunset smelting his glorious crown. Its vestiges trickle, golden, down rosy cheekbones, adding highlights to the silver lining of his cloud-white hair. He smiles, tired and tender; he marches, keeping pace to the beat that Time has chosen, however errant it might seem to be. In his wake, his shadow is about to be drowned in the flooding gloom. Greedy, that same gloom suckles at his heels, teases at his back; it dares to try and follow him down the well-worn Path. 

Or perhaps it is rushing up to meet its Master. 

As they have for untold millennias, the King of Day and the King of Night are in orbit to pass each other, moving around and around and around, their Mobius dance drawing them back into the other’s atmosphere twice every twenty four hours. They gaze forward, their shoulders brushing; they say nothing, gliding smoothly from one end of twelve to the other. Billowed robes rush, palls of ethereal fabric drifting, gradient, flowing, unspooling to swathe the heavens. Now, starry blackness will blanket the world.

Arms of lilac-pale spread _wide_. 

The King of Day should not turn his head to watch. He should not hesitate, even though the sun does in the distance. He should not drop that single rose when their slippers align, when their gossamer gowns chafe whispers, and starlight pokes pinpricks into the dome of the sky. He should not romanticize that moment when day is overcome by night. 

But in being so overcome, how can he not? 

****

**X**

The King of Night blushes like dusk. He glows, the doubts that cloud his pretty face catching fire upon his cheeks. Ephemeral magenta illuminates the gray of his countenance, skin smoldering as streaks of scarlet seep down his throat. Vibrant cerise fades into velvety violet.

Of course, the King of Day blushes like dawn: Pearly pink and peach and pretty, his eyes full of morning mist. 

“Good day!” he greets heartily, suddenly, eons of tradition shattering along with the regal silence. Beside him, the Prince of the Dawn gawps, mortified; _red skies in the morning, sailors take warning_. The seas will be rough today; something pitches in the pit of the King’s stomach. As for the dark skinned Viscount who guides his own lord down the Twilight Path, he is gaping too, but more in amusement. His black hole eyes might devour light, but they still manage to glisten. 

The King of Day dons his sunniest smile, casting the whole of its warmth upon the King of Night. The latter has dared himself only the quickest glance, as fast as a falling star. Or maybe an imploding star, his flush outshining the aurora.

He offers nothing in return sans the rose. 

****

**X**

Rain rolls from the King of Day’s blue-fire eyes, the stem of the flower pinched between his fingers. He had been so particular when choosing it, had taken such care to insure he found the right shade of burgundy. The bloom is tinged with the reds of sunset and sunrise, of dusk and dawn, of every shade of eros and agape that blazes in his red giant heart. It is the color of this torch he carries, the red of a guiding flame in the night.

His tears fall, but they do little to smother that fire. 

“Does he not understand the message?” the King of Day wails, sprawled in a dramatic heap across the floor of his throne room. The crystal and glass of their mirrored palaces now reflect the splendors of his domain. He languishes in a puddle of sunlight. 

Beside him, the Prince of Dawn seethes, his pallid corona flashing in anger. It takes all of his self-control and then some to refrain from kicking his King where the sun doesn’t shine. 

“Do _you_ not understand messages, you idiot?”

It is a very gray day. 

****

**X**

Constellations tilt and twinkle where they crown the King of Night, those spiraling star systems ever-shifting upon his brow. They move when the King does. When the Kings do.

They are close, their elbows bumping, when the King of Day notes Aquarius— _Ganymede_ — being pursued by the eagle Aquila. 

They are far, yet hours and miles apart, when he thinks he sees the gleam of Circinus, of Pyxis. 

They are in procession, and Corona Borealis glows like hope, warm and soft and undying. The King of Night glides towards his counterpart, step by step, minute to minute. His dark-skinned Viscount murmurs something behind a cupped palm, and the cosmos rearranges itself to display Delphinus. 

“…good night,” the King of Night whispers, shy, his voice no stronger than a midnight breeze wending itself through reeds. They are—for a heartbeat— side to side, hip to hip, ankle to ankle, and no one else can hear him over the ebb and flow of his eventide mantle. 

In that instant, the King of Day thinks the sun has exploded in his chest. 

In the next, he wonders if the Prince of Dawn had been right. 

****

**X**

“My name is Viktor.”

“…Yuuri.” 

Full moons shine in the ether of his eyes, a waxing crescent upon his lips. There are stardust freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, and Viktor delights in trying to map them in the final dregs of daylight. 

Grasses grovel at their feet. Shadows stretch longer than Time itself. 

The King of Night—no, Yuuri— floats past his daytime double, the cool air breathing new life into his lungs. Elegant, sensual, awake, alive; indigo highlights halo his body as obsidian tendrils of hair slick back— as high cheekbones gain a milky way-radiance— as Yuuri’s head falls upon the top of his spine and in glory he _becomes_. With the tenderness of a lover, Yuuri embraces the void before him, Pisces seared upon his brow, and Viktor tries not to envy the darkness. 

****

**X**

_Red skies at night, sailors’ delight_. Red like a rose that is always returned, its satin petals wilted where Yuuri had touched it, cradled it, kissed it. Viktor presses his own mouth to the blacked bud and ponders.

A moonflower wilts when lifted from the Twilight Path, and he understands. 

****

**X**

In truth, the sun is but a single star within the galaxies at Yuuri’s fingertips, insignificant in the vastness of the universe that he commands.

“Yuuri,” Viktor whispers, adoring, their gazes already locked when the back of his hand skims his counterpart’s. _Perihelion_ , the mortals might call it. Or perhaps _perilune_. It does not matter, really. What _does_ matter is that Yuuri notices his gaze, that he sees how eyes of afternoon-blue are studying his interstellar diadem when Viktor asks, “Where am _I_?” 

Aquila has captured Aquarius on Yuuri’s temple; Circinus and Pyxis point both of the royals here, to this place, to this moment; Corona Borealis nearly blinds everyone with its brilliance. 

Yuuri blushes on the Twilight Path. He considers, a meteor winking in his circlet.

He touches his heart.

Once again, forever and always, Day is overcome. 

****

**X**

It ends at the beginning.

It is not dawn or dusk, full-light or twilight, and they are alone. There is no one to herald their arrival, nor force them to keep pace, and so they linger where they stand upon the Path, toe to toe and chest to chest. They are face to face, rather than side to side, and front to front and heart to heart, a moonflower held in Viktor’s hands and a rose clasped lovingly in Yuuri’s. Their perfumes mingle in the tenebrous air, the blossoms’ combined scents more pungent than that of the lilies. Sweetness entwines above their heads. 

Above that, celestial bodies slide into an embrace. 

“Kiss me?” Yuuri breathes, ever-gentle. Ever-enchanting, with prophecies weaved about his crown and comets in his veins. The moons inside his eyes eclipse Viktor’s very soul. “Please?” 

For seven minutes and thirty one seconds, Viktor does exactly that.

****

**XXX**


End file.
